


Something In The Blood

by mixeduppainter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sort of AU, still hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixeduppainter/pseuds/mixeduppainter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - Sam and Dean are still hunters but their lives have taken an unusual turn. While working a case, they meet Castiel who dresses like a librarian but isn't nearly as normal as he seems. Especially when he starts blaming angels for the town's recent disappearances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something In The Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Here lies my story for the Dean Cas Big Bang. Enjoy.

 

They’ve just made town when the rain starts up, first with a few spitting drops and then with a gush so heavy Dean is lying over the steering wheel trying to see through the windshield. His wiper blades bat at the rain but as soon as they clear a patch of the glass it’s filled in again.  


“Dude, I can’t see shit,” Dean complains.  


“What do you want me to do about it?” Sam asked from beside him in the passenger seat. His head has been bent over a book for the last hour of featureless highway driving. He doesn’t look up now. “We’re stopping here anyway, right?”  


Dean makes a face at him. “Bitch,” he mutters  


“Jerk,” Sam fires back. He still doesn’t raise his head. This is a conversation they could have in their sleep. They’ve already repeated the whole thing a dozen times in the years since Sam came back to hunting. But it’s a kind of comfort to repeat the script they’ve had since they were kids.  


The town’s motel selection is severely lacking so Dean pulls into the parking lot of the first place he thinks could pass as one. It’s hard to tell out the rain streaked windshield anyway. But for once he’s guessed right. The Shady Rock Motel has four other cars in the parking lot and a sign that says “vacancy.” That’s all Dean needs to know. He knocks Sam on the shoulder to dislodge him from the book and sprints from the Impala before he can change his mind. He’s soaked before he makes it to the office to check in.  


The door jingles merrily as Dean heads inside, leaving a puddle of chilly rain in his wake.  


Barry Manilow leaks out from the closed office door behind the check in counter. Dean winces. Then he starts searching for a sign that says “ring bell for service.” No bells. No buzzers. Just Barry Manilow singing something sappy.  


“Hey! Anybody there?” Dean finally calls when no one appears to put him out of his Barry Manilow induced misery.  
The office door pops open barely a second later and a scrawny man in a striped shirt slips out in a cloud of soft rock and stale smoke. He blinks at Dean. “Why hello.” His smile is mellow and crooked toothed.  


“Yeah. Hey. I need a room. A double,” Dean says, trying not to inhale the fresh wave of stink from the closet sized office at the man’s back.  


“Must be a convention or something,” the guy comments as he slides over a bedraggled register for Dean to fill out. “You’re the third this week.”  


Dean raises an eyebrow. “Pretty small convention.”  


But the guy just shrugs and recaps the pen he’d offered Dean with the book. He pulls a key off the rack beneath the counter and slaps it onto the counter. The room is cheap, hardly making a dent in the cash in Dean’s pocket. “You’ll be in room six, Mr…” His eyes drop to the register. “Mr. Greenbaum. Enjoy your stay.”  


They exchange nods and Dean hurries out the door to escape the special kind of hell that is the front office of the Shady Rock Motel.  


He forgot the rain.  


Rain slithers down his neck, soaking his already wet collar. In no time it’s running straight down his spine like the icy finger of a corpse. He wishes it was a corpse so he could shoot and make it go away.  


“Awesome,” Dean grumbles as he unlocks the door of number six and throws it wide.  


Sam shows up a second later, toting his bag and his laptop and looking a lot less like a drowned rat than Dean does. Dean scowls at him. “Next time you’re getting the room and I’m sitting in the car to wait for your ass.”  


Sam just shrugs. He drops his damp duffel beside the table and sets himself up for more research. Laptop. Stack of books. A sheaf of copies he’d made at the library in Lincoln before they got on the road.  


Dean waits. Sam’s hardly said a word since they left the last town a full eight hours ago. Normally his silence would be something of a blessing. Today it’s just suspicious. Dean gives Sam’s back another hard stare before he shrugs. He’ll get it out of him eventually.  


“I’m gonna head to the diner around the corner. You want something?”  


Sam hesitates before he agrees. Then it’s back to research.  


By some miracle the rain has passed when Dean steps out the door but judging by the heavy cloud cover in the darkening sky it won’t be long before it starts up again. He doesn’t waste time getting to the diner.  


It’s the real deal. The glittery vinyl cushioned chairs. The faded formica counters with wobbly stools. Walls faded with years of continuous use and the grease that goes with it. The feeling of walking into a diner is the closest thing to home he’s got outside of the Impala and Sam. Dean smiles at the mostly empty room and picks a stool at the counter. The few customers look as soggy as he does, girls with limp hair drying into a stringy mess, men trying to keep their damp shirts from sticking to their backs. The waitress at the counter is just about the only one who looks properly dry.  


She steps up, high ponytail strangely motionless as if she’s emptied a can of hairspray into it, but her smile is genuine as she takes his order and shuffles away.  


The mood in the diner is subdued but Dean keeps his ears pricked up for interesting conversation. They’d come to town chasing the usual rash of strange disappearances. Might as well start gathering intel while he waits for his burger to arrive. It would be easier if anyone was talking. Anyone at all.  


He glances around. They’re all still there. The two at a table against the far well. The three in the booth. Another guy flying solo in a booth busy staring out the window. It’s creepy how quiet they are. He can hear the scraping of forks on plates. The soft crush of paper napkins. He’s barely able to hold onto the urge to start spouting “Christo” and spraying holy water but no one’s eyes are turning black. They’re not even looking at him, or anyone else for that matter.  


When the waitress comes back Dean nods a head at the collected zombie customers. “What’s up with them?”  


“Oh.” She nods slowly like a bobblehead in a sudden wind. “It’s been a bad week around here. Don’t you worry about it, hon. You just enjoy your burger. I had ‘em make it for you special,” she finishes with a wink and scurries away before Dean can repeat his question.

*******

“So,” Dean says, still shaking water out of his hair from his trip back to the motel. “That was weird.”  


“What?” Sam closes the book on the table in front of him and takes the paper bag Dean holds out to him.  


“Nothing really. Except that I walked into the Stepford Diner down the street. They were all like frumpy zombies in there. No talking. No smiling. It was friggin’ creepy.”  


Sam says nothing.  


“Tell me again why we’re here?” Dean says even though he remembers exactly what Sam had said before they left Lincoln.  


“I’ve been doing some research. In the last three months alone there have been a dozen deaths in this town.”  


“Not that unusual,” Dean says mostly because it’s expected. He knows the script. Might as well stick to it.  


“It is when the bodies have all been found drained of blood. The ones that’ve been found anyway.”  


“So we’re talking vampires.”  


“Could be. The corpses didn’t have the usual wounds you’d expect from a vampire attack. No major trauma. No bites. And get this,” Sam begins, turning away from his salad preparations to make sure he has Dean’s attention. “The last victim, Haylee Connors, was found sitting on a park swing. Some kids found her. Thought she was a doll or something until she fell over.”  


“Creepy. But not exactly noteworthy,” Dean interrupts.  


“Her blood was bagged and in a basket on the ground beside her,” Sam finishes with a self satisfied smile at Dean’s expression.  


“That’s different. When did this happen?”  


“She was just found this morning. Police still have no leads.”  


“That’s because they’re stupid.”  


“Dean.” Sam frowns.  


“So what’s up with you anyway? You’ve had doom face since we left Lincoln.”  


“It’s nothing.”  


“Yeah, because you look great. Really,” Dean says, dropping onto his bed. His shirt is still plastered to his back, growing colder despite the stuffy temperature controlled air in their motel room. It’s too early to go for a surprise field trip to the morgue but the sun has already set so poking around the park for more bits of Haylee Connors is out too. He stares at the faded design on the wallpaper. It looks like a series of interlocking infinity symbols. It kinda gives him a headache.  


Sam pokes at his salad, his plastic fork bending with the pressure required to spear a leaf of flaccid lettuce. He doesn’t answer.  


Finally Dean claps his hands on his knees and stands up again. “Great. Good talk. Let’s do this again sometime.” He checks his watch even though he knows what time it is already. “Whadaya say we hit the morgue?”

*******

The morgue is as eerily silent as they would have expected considering its clientele. Their steps echo on the linoleum floor. All in all, it’s creepy as fuck. Normally it wouldn’t bother Dean but between Sam’s emo silent treatment and the itchy feeling of eyes following him ever since they hit town, Dean is feeling pretty well creeped. He’s been expecting something to leap out of a shrub and attack him ever since they made town. The fact that it hasn’t happened yet only makes him that much more anxious. In his experience, the longer it takes for the monster under the bed to make itself known, the worse it’ll be when it does.  


Sam pans his flashlight over the walls, keeping it low, below the level of the windows, until he spots the shining wall of coolers each with a dead body surprise inside. He nods to Dean. Dean rolls his eyes back and shoos Sam over. Neither of them wants to be the one to open the thing. Finally they both step up, each waiting for the other to open the door. Sam breaks first and yanks it open with a sigh that quickly turns to a choked cough at the smell of dead flesh.  


“Wuss,” Dean says, trying to keep his own lip from curling. He pulls a pair of rubber gloves from the box on the wall and tosses a second pair to Sam. “Let’s see what we got.”  


The dead girl, aside from being dead and pretty rank smelling, is in excellent condition when they check. “Somebody had braces,” Dean comments when Sam pulls back her lips to check for anything in her mouth. Her neck is free of wounds. Not a single vampire bite or wound anywhere though they look, even rolling her to check her back. The only wounds are the surgically precise slits on both wrists. Dean lifts her arm. “This look like it was done with a knife to you?”  


Sam shrugs.  


“What kind of vampire uses a scalpel to open their juice box? Why not just bite her?”  


Sam answers with another shrug.

*******

In the thin light of morning, the playground is empty and forlorn, still adorned with yellow plastic police tape. Sam and Dean duck beneath the yellow tape without a second thought, inching along, searching the ground for clues that the police haven’t trampled into the woodchips.  


“You already saw the police report, Dean. They didn’t find anything. Just a bag of blood and a dead body. What is it you think we’re gonna find out here?”  


“I dunno. Something. Something the cops they didn’t know they were looking for. Blood doesn’t just bag itself. Someone had to be doing it.”  


“Maybe it’s a serial killer and not something supernatural at all.”  


Dean rolls his eyes, snatching up a fallen stick to prod at the ground. “When did you become the negative one? I thought that was my job. Could be vampires. Or witches. Who else needs blood?”  


“Who doesn’t? You want me to write a list? But why would they leave the blood this time?”  


“Dunno. Maybe there was something wrong with it. Won’t know until we check into these other disappearances. How many have there been?”  


Sam slants a glance around the playground while he thinks. “About a dozen now. At least that the police know about. Twice a month, like clockwork.”  


“Sounds like a ritual to me,” Dean muses in a low voice. Then he squats, staring at a patch of unremarkable ground.  


“What?”  


“There’s something in the dirt here.” Dean pokes his stick into the dry packed earth, brushing woodchips out of the way until he’s uncovered the patch before him. He gives it another experimental poke before prying it free.  


“What is it?” Sam abandons his spot at the edge of the playground to hover over Dean. His shadow lays itself out at Dean’s side like another curious observer.  


The thing in the dirt is charred black and odd shaped. It crumbles a little as Dean prods it, flaking oily black. Sam stares at it, forehead wrinkling. “What is that?”  


Dean finally picks it up in two fingers, holding it up to get a better look. “Not sure. Feathers? Kinda looks like feathers.” The thing is half melted and shiny black around the edges but the pale shafts of a clump of flight feathers sticks out the side, only partially burnt. Where it isn’t a shiny burnt black, the feathers are a milky dove grey beneath their coating of mud. Dean dusts them off. More char floats free of the clump. He raises his eyebrows at Sam. “Exploding bird?”  


“Why would a bird explode?” His mouth turns down at the corners and he snorts.  


“Why wouldn’t it?”  


Sam looks around the ground. “I don’t see any other feathers. Besides what do exploding birds have to do with missing blood?”  


Dean drops the clump of feathers and dusts off his fingers. He shrugs. “Research?”  


Sam shrugs back. He pauses, eyes sweeping the caution taped area.  


“See something?”  


For a moment earlier Dean had felt eyes on him, the kind of phantom itch on the back of his neck that snakes across his shoulders and hitches them up tight, but he’d written it off as quickly as it came. He’d been feeling uneasy since they hit town, something in the air, or in Sam’s attitude since they got on the road this last time, or maybe it was leftover from that creepy ass freak show at the diner last night. Whatever the cause, Dean ignored it as the paranoia he was sure it was. But the furrow in Sam’s brow makes him wonder if he’d been too hasty.  


“Nah, it’s nothing,” Sam says after a moment but his eyes still search the waving branches of the bordering pines.

*******

Five hours later, Dean tosses away the book he’s been poring over. It hits his unmade bed and bounces onto the floor face down. Dean glares at it. “I can’t find anything anywhere about exploding birds.”  


Sam glances up from his laptop. He chuckles before he goes back to typing. “I told you it wasn’t an exploding bird.”  


Dean scrubs his face with both hands, huffing an aggravated breath into his cupped fingers. “Then what?” he complains. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be researching anymore.”  


“Maybe some kid in the neighborhood left it. It was just feathers. I didn’t see any…” Sam pauses, searching for the words, “meat. Or bones.”  


And suddenly Dean is picturing a cartoon bird roasting on a spit, feathers and all, with a pitiful expression on its animated face. Maybe a little sign in its wing that says HELP. Yep. Sure sign he’s been reading the extra boring books too long.  


He stretches his arms out as wide as they’ll go, waiting for the happy pop of his back relaxing after hours of hunched reading. The feeling is so amazing that he shivers, a small pleasure that travels right down to his toes. “So what then? It’s still early. Question the family? Food? Anywhere but that Stepford diner,” he adds quickly.  


“I’m still looking into things that aren’t an exploding bird,” Sam says. He flicks another glance at the window. “It’s raining again.”  


“Aw man.” Dean wishes he was still holding that awful book so he could throw it again. He’s getting damn tired of all the rain. It’s like this whole town is covered by a blanket of tears. It rained late into the night, so long that when Dean finally went to sleep he half expected to wake up to a flooded room. He’d been happy to wake up to sun in his eyes. Maybe they wouldn’t need Noah’s arc just yet.  


But now: more rain.  


Dean scowls at the window. “Maybe it’ll pass.”  


As if to taunt him the windows rattle with a sudden clap of thunder.  


“Son of a bitch.”

*******

The rain is still pouring over the angled motel roof when they finally try to leave their room. It forms an almost perfect curtain, translucent and shining, refracting the neon lights from the motel sign like a prism. Dean braces himself before he pushes through, icy water collecting in his collar in that all too familiar way.  


The drive to a bar, further away and hopefully less fucking creepy than the Stepford diner Dean hit last night, passes mostly in silence. Dean fiddles with the radio dial, hoping that something decent will show itself amongst the static of dead air.  


“This is like Hell,” Dean grumbles. “There’s nothing out here. Or maybe it’s the Twilight Zone. I feel like I got wished into the cornfield.”  


Sam snorts. “It’s not that bad.”  


Dean spins the radio dial for emphasis, watching the line of the station indicator as it slides from one end to the other without hitting anything in between. Nothing but static and the far off echo of country on a station that doesn’t quite come in. Dean raises his eyebrows, tossing a glance at his brother before his eyes return to the road ahead of them. Even the road is lost in a haze of white noise and rain that spatters the windshield like a Jackson Pollack painting. “I’m telling ya. It’s friggin’ creepy.”  


“Okay. Maybe a little,” Sam concedes. “But that’s kind of our whole life. Why are you so surprised now?”  


Dean shrugs. Good question.  


“There’s just something weird about this place. WeirdER. I’ve been feeling it since we turned off the interstate. There’s definitely something here. And it’s pissing me off.”  


“Everything pisses you off.”  


“Annoying things. Only annoying things.”

 

*******

The Winchesters shake the rain from their bodies like dogs. It splatters the scarred wood floor of the bar. This particular bar is bigger than it seemed on the outside. It’s got the kind of dim lighting that makes it hard to see what you’re drinking but easy to pretend like you don’t care. And the mood must be popular, judging by the number of people hunched over the bar with a drink in front of them. Maybe the rain is bothering everybody, not just Dean. He palms the remaining water from his jaw and wipes it on his jeans. A shiver passes through him. A second later, he sneezes.  


“Bless you,” Sam says, looking at him like he’s grown a second head.  


“What? It was a sneeze. Stop looking at me like that.”  


“You never get sick.”  


“I’m not sick,” Dean snaps before stomping over to a table with moderate privacy along the wall. He barely waits for Sam to fold himself onto the chair opposite before he asks, “So what did you find on the not-exploding bird situation? What’s up with the blood? Past its expiration date? What?”  


“So far I’ve found too much. There are hundreds of rituals that require blood. Summonings, spells... And so far there’s no real clues. No way to tell what it is. Could be anything. Vampires, witches, demons. They all need blood.”  


“But why give back some of the blood? You saw the report. The milk carton was full. They didn’t keep any of that Haylee girl’s blood.”  


Sam shrugs. “Something wrong with it probably. Some kind of taint.” His eyes lit with a sudden question. “Virgin blood?”  


Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Virgins?”  


“A lot of rituals require virgin blood. No virgin, no ritual.”  


“So you think that’s what happened? I don’t know,” Dean muses. “Guess it’s possible. What a waste though. Everyone’s always trying to kill the virgins.”  


As he says it, a woman passes their table. She slows, giving Dean a startled look. He smiles back with an awkward chuckle. “We’re making a movie,” he says, smile faltering. “Nothing to see,” he mutters as the blond woman stumbles into a nearby table and carries on.  


Sam slaps a sheaf of papers onto their scuffed and sticky table and starts paging through. “I can’t find any connection between bloodletting and birds. Or exploding birds. Or feathers.”  


“Maybe a demon with wings?” Dean suggests. He shoots Sam a warning look as a waitress swings round to their table. The pile of research slips beneath the table just as she makes it over, pad in hand.  


“What can I get you boys?” she asks in the efficient voice of someone who’s repeated the same words a few dozen times already and will go on to say them a few dozen more. She tacks on a thin smile that actually touches her eyes. For a second, it’s like he’s looking at Ellen. Their waitress has the same no nonsense kind of look and the same dark eyes. Dean makes a mental note to call Ellen up when they’re done in this crappy town. She’ll have his head if he doesn’t get in contact soon.  


They wait until the waitress has come back with their drinks and their food, a burger as big as his head (for Dean) and a surprisingly decent chicken sandwich (for Sam), before they get back to business.  


“Tell me you’re not getting the weirdo vibe from this place. I dare you,” Dean says around a bite of ground beef and bacon.  


Sam sets down his sandwich and wipes his fingers on a napkin before answering. His eyes sweep the dimly lit room. “Here?”  


“No! Yeah,” Dean corrects. “Not just here. The whole town. It’s like…” he hesitates, filling the silence with another bite of his burger. Orange grease runs from the corner of his mouth before he swipes it off his chin with the back of one hand. He swallows. “It’s like everyone’s half asleep or something.”  


Sam looks around again, nodding slowly. It’s a weeknight so it’s no surprise that the bar isn’t packed with noise. But the activity is listless. Most of the drinkers are silent, staring into space as if lost in their own existential crises. Even the brothers’ conversation has been hushed, trying to stay below the quiet murmur of the other people in the bar.  


“Okay. It’s a little weird. Spell?”  


Dean shrugs. “Hell if I know. The wake for that Haylee girl is tomorrow. Maybe we can get something there.” He drags a steak fry through the puddle of ketchup on his plate. Halfway to his mouth, it stops. “Hey.” He sneaks a glance over his shoulder, covers by flagging down their waitress to get two more beers. “You see that guy over there?” Dean asks, leaning over the table as soon as the waitress moves on again. He points with his fry, the end still bright red with ketchup. Sam’s eyes follow the gesturing fry.  


“Which one?”  


“Black coat. Looks like he just got off work at the IRS.”  


Sam nods slowly, eyes zeroing in on the guy Dean’s not so subtly pointing at. He doesn’t look like much to Sam, with eyes that droop like he hasn’t slept properly in days, a matching set to all the other people in this town. “What about him?”  


“I saw him earlier.”  


“And?”  


“I think he’s following us.”  


“Dean there are only a couple thousand people in this town. It’s not hard to find the same person twice.”  


Dean takes an angry bite of his fry, jabbing the last bit into the ketchup and popping it in his mouth with a scowl. He works his way through another couple fries before he answers“Yeah, maybe.”  


Sam’s lips pull together in a puckered smile that he quickly hides behind his sandwich. “So, you wanna talk about the case or you gonna go talk to the stalker?”  


“Shut up.” The scowl he points at Sam is ruined by a sudden twitch. Dean’s next sneeze almost tips him out of his chair and onto the floor.

*******

Dean sniffles his way through most of Haylee Connors’ wake, glaring at Sam every time he produces a Kleenex for Dean to blow his stuffy nose. “Not funny,” Dean grumbles but he takes the offered tissue. Before long his nose is red and just as irritated as the rest of him. “This blows.”  


Sam snorts out a tiny laugh that’s quickly covered by a cough. They’ve already spoken with most of the family, passing themselves off as distant friends, students from the local community college that Haylee attended. And so far their attempt at investigation has turned up a whole lot of nothing. Less than nothing. Dean is starting to think that they’re going backwards instead of forward.  


The wake is uncrowded, mostly family and a few scattered girls who must have been Haylee’s friends, all of them subdued. A few cry quietly but even here the strange lethargy of the town seems to have crept in. The only ones looking properly upset are Mr. and Mrs. Connors and another guy who hovers in the corner. Young, dressed in a v-neck sweater and thick framed Buddy Holly glasses. He shifts awkwardly, eyes roaming around the room as if looking for some kind of sense to put to the current situation.  


Dean tips his head in Buddy Holly’s direction and Sam nods. In unison, they head over.  


“It’s a terrible loss,” Sam comments with soft eyed sympathy once they’re in range and Buddy Holly looks up, startled. He rubs a stray tear from the corner of his eye.  


“Yeah. It’s… I can’t believe it. It’s…” He nods aimlessly. His eyes dart to the coffin at the other end of the room and then quickly away. His face pales. “I…”  


“Can’t believe it,” Dean finishes for him the second time. “Yeah.”  


Buddy Holly’s eyes finally focus on Sam and Dean. “Uh, who—who are you?” he stutters. Up close he seems younger than he did from across the room. His skin still shows the last traces of acne and he has the wide doe eyes of a kid who’s never seen a bad day in his life.  


“We’re friends of Haylee’s. From school,” Sam supplies smoothly, shooting Dean a warning looking.  


“From school?” Buddy Holly looks between the two of them. He frowns, expression clouding with suspicion. “You guys don’t look like nurses.”  


“We get that a lot,” Dean says, smiling so tightly it hurts. “We come from a long line of nurses. I’m Dean. This is Sam. Haylee never mentioned us?”  


“No. No, she didn’t.”  


Dean shrugs with a muttered “ah, well” and lets it drop. “She sure talked about you a lot though.”  


“Really?” Buddy Holly’s eyes light up like twin stars for a fraction of a second. Then he slumps. “I can’t believe it. Why would anyone… who would do…” He shakes his head again and another tear leaks from his eye. It runs along his nose, stalling at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe I’m never gonna see her again. We were together right before she... It was our anniversary. Three years…”  


When the tears start in earnest, Dean shoves Sam to the front with a grimace of barely contained terror and makes his escape. From a safe distance, Dean waits for Sam to disengage himself from the mourning boyfriend. There’s a lot of shoulder patting and hiccupping tears and once or twice Sam glares at Dean over Buddy Holly’s bowed head. Eventually he drifts away like a piece of driftwood in a stream, still mumbling about anniversaries and plans they’d made.  


“Oooookay. So… I’m guessing not a virgin then,” Dean says when Sam rejoins him. His words are punctuated by another sneeze.  
Sam nods. “Sounds that way. Now what?”  


“Hell if I know.” Dean makes a face, tongue lolling. “My whole mouth tastes like ass.”  


“That’s because you have a cold.”  


“Dude, I’m not sick.”  


“Then what do you call it? You’ve been sneezing all morning.”  


“I’m not sick.”  


“Whatever.”  


“I’m not.”

Sam and Dean squint as they step out of the respectful dimness of the funeral home and into the early afternoon sun. Just as they do, a familiar shape appears ahead of them heading down the sidewalk. Dean hits his brother on the arm, an unspoken “I told you so” passing between them as he rolls his eyes at the retreating figure in the black trench.  


Sam nods.  


It’s not hard to follow the guy. He’s walking fast but the town is small and uncomplicated, with straight streets, numbered for ease, and the guy stands taller than most of the people passing around him. After a moment, he starts to hum, seemingly untroubled by their pursuit. The song drifts back to them on the breeze and Dean recognizes Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door.  


Despite himself Dean smiles a little. Good song. Then it’s back to the business of following him down the street and around the corner. They make it two blocks, struggling to keep up with the pace the guy is keeping before Sam hesitates and looks around. “The park?” he says, shooting a look ahead. And sure enough the street dead ends at the side of the park they’d visited the day before, still deep green and brown from the seemingly endless rain.  


“Yeah, because that’s not suspicious,” Dean says. When Sam isn’t looking he rubs at his nose. And it’s like the world is against him because just like that the grey skies open up and start dumping a thin rain on them. “I need to start carrying a damn umbrella around here.”  


The guy in the trench doesn’t even hesitate, crossing the street without looking and that’s just reckless and extra suspicious too, Dean thinks to himself though he doesn’t say it out loud. The guy in the trench coat passes between the trees that border the little rectangular park, their branches obscuring him for a moment.  


“Come on. We’re gonna lose him,” Dean says.  


Their boots crunch and slip in the sodden woodchips of the park, the only noise over the background hush of the steady drizzle. Someone has tugged the police tape free from one of the trees. It flutters like an unhappy flag but the rest of the park is untouched. No one on the swings or sliding down the slide. The jungle gym drips rainwater like lonely tears.  


“Well, where is he?” Dean asks. He turns to Sam.  


The black coat snaps as the guy darts out of the trees, moving so quickly he’s practically a blur. Sam whirls but not fast enough. The guy’s punch knocks him on his ass in the woodchips and the gritty dirt.  


“Hey!” Dean reaches for the knife at his side and lunges in front of Sam. His feet wobble beneath him. The spongy ground is definitely to blame for that one, Dean thinks as he slashes with the knife.  


The guy with the trench coat, his eyes don’t look so lazy anymore, Dean notices. The firm set of his jaw means business and when he punches Dean he sees stars. They stagger around the open ground, Dean trying to corner the bastard in a place without corners, keeping an eye on Sam while he staggers to his feet like a newborn deer learning to walk. And the guy smirks. He dodges between the swings, scooping one up and pushing it out behind him in a clatter of chains. It catches an unlucky Sam in the jaw. He makes a startled noise and goes down again and that’s about all it takes for Dean to get pissed.  


“Come here, you bastard,” he growls, swinging with the knife. He hadn’t planned on hurting the guy (much) but he started it. Dean plans to finish it.  


Trench Coat’s smirk amps up another notch and his eyebrows descend in concentration. His next move is so fast that Dean doesn’t even see it coming until he’s flat on his back, rain soaking through his coat and the ass of his jeans. He shivers again. He fucking hates this rain. But if he’s gonna be miserable, he won’t be miserable alone. Dean sweeps Trench Coat’s legs from beneath him. He smiles at the meaty thud of a body hitting the ground even though it’s ruined a little by the fact that Trench Coat doesn’t make a noise otherwise. More scrambling. Sam back on his feet though he’s wobbly and his jaw looks a little puffy from that run in with the swing. Dean’s ears are ringing and his head is pounding and dammit he’s not sick. He grapples with Trench Coat, both of them trying to claim Dean’s fallen knife and get the upper hand. They roll and the bastard has an impossibly tight grip because Dean can’t pry the knife from his fingers. They swing at each other, scrambling and awkward like two kids fighting in a schoolyard, picking up mud as they roll.  


“Hey!” Sam shouts, trotting after them.  
Dean’s head is spinning and the blood pounding in his ears is loud as a steel drum. He shakes his head, wood chips scuffing his neck and the cool metal of his knife against his throat.  


“Take another step and I slit his throat,” says the surprisingly gruff voice of Trench Coat and Dean realizes that he’s on the bottom, Trench Coat pinning him with his weight and the pressure of the freshly sharpened knife at his throat. Dean’s knife.  


“Aw, fuck,” Dean grumbles.

*******

“Talk fast,” Dean says, still scowling hard. Sam is squashed into the restaurant booth beside him. And across from them is Trench Coat, whose name they still haven’t managed to pry free.  


Now that they’re sitting quietly, Trench Coat is back to looking like a worn out accountant, hair mussed like he’s run his hands through it a few times too many. The impossibly agile fighter has retreated, dropping below the surface like a rock into a dark lake. In the harsh neon lights of the restaurant it’s hard to believe that this asshole dropped Sam and Dean without breaking a sweat. Dean glares but the guy remains unperturbed, staring back with unblinking blue marble eyes.  


“What is it you wish me to say?” Trench Coat asks. He folds his hands on the table before him. The cuffs of his coat hike up high enough to reveal a slip of the shirtsleeve beneath, still damp and streaked with mud from their fight in the park. It’s the only real evidence that he’s been doing anything besides strolling through town.  


“How about you start with why you attacked us,” Dean barks, almost flying out of his seat with the sudden urge to strangle Trench Coat and his stupid zen calm.  


“Dean.” Sam puts a hand on his arm.  


“You were following me,” Trench Coat says in his shredded gravel voice. Dean can practically feel the words in his chest, rattling around his rib cage and pounding on his heart. Or maybe that’s just the leftover adrenaline. “Obviously I thought you were one of them. I was wrong.”  


“One of who?” Sam asks.  


Trench Coat hesitates, licking his lips as if trying to smooth the next words along. “My apologies for inconveniencing you. But this is a personal matter. It’s best if I don’t involve you further.”  


Sam and Dean raise eyebrows in unison, exchanging a quick look between them. “You’re here for the same thing we are,” Sam says. “We’re already involved. We can’t just leave.”  


The guy looks at them with a look of amusement though it’s hard to pinpoint what about his expression makes him look that way when his face barely changes. Dean stares at him, studying the straight line of his full mouth and the creases at the corners of his eyes. There’s no smile on his lips or in those wide eyes yet somehow, Dean knows he’s laughing at them. He grumbles. For a moment he’s tempted to tell Sam to pack up. Get the hell out of Dodge. Leave the nameless bastard to his hunt even if they’ve already put days into it. But that’s not his way. He doesn’t cut and run.  


“You know something about this hunt, don’t you?” Dean challenges. “You might as well tell us. We’ll find out sooner or later.”  


“You’re hunters,” Trench Coat says as if it’s only just dawned on him. His eyes widen and he licks his lips again. Dean’s gaze follows the motion automatically.  


“Well we’re not Avon ladies,” Dean snaps back.  


“We can be thankful for that,” says Trench Coat with an obvious twitch of his lips and Dean flushes with something between embarrassment and anger. He’s not quite sure which he should be.  


“Listen, we’re not going anywhere so you’re stuck with us until we catch this bastard,” Dean says after he gathers himself again with a stiffening of the shoulders and a tightening of the jaw. Then he’s back in proper shape despite the fact that his left nostril whistles every time he tries to inhale. Damn cold. He’s not sick.  


His answer is a weary sigh from across the table. The blue eyes blink slowly and the mouth goes slack for a fraction of a second. It’s silence, or as close to it as they can get in a crowded restaurant, until he nods a second time. “Okay.” The entire time his eyes never stray from Dean’s, holding the eye contact much longer than is normal or comfortable or even remotely okay but Dean won’t look away first. His eyes burn with the effort not to blink. And something about that makes a proper smile curl Trench Coat’s lips.  


“So, we just gonna say ‘hey you’ when we need you or what?” Dean asks. The gruff question doesn’t unbend those full lips from their amused smile like he’d hoped.  


“Castiel.”  


“Bless you,” says Dean.  


And that finally gets the reaction that Dean’s been seeking. “Castiel”s eyebrows pull together in a slight frown while he formulates his next answer in that robotic way of his. Dean can already see how weird it’s gonna be working with him. It’s like talking to a computer with bionic man reflexes and a wardrobe that screams discount hipster. Dean eyes Castiel’s dark button down and his tie, still askew from their fight. It looks strange paired with his well worn jeans and scuffed boots. Strange clothes for a hunter. Strange clothes for a strange man.  


“It’s a family name,” Castiel says, interrupting Dean’s introspection into what the hell he’s wearing.  


Dean blinks. “What?”  


“My name. Though I appreciate your attempt at humor.”  


Sam snorts happily and Dean is tempted to make him walk back to the motel for that one. Whose side is he on anyway?  


“Nice to meet you, Castiel,” Sam says, quickly filling the gap that Dean is tempted to fill with fists. The rest of the introductions are quick, and begrudging on Dean’s part, before they move on to the most important topic of business. “So, you seem like you know what’s going on in this town. What have you figured out?”  


Castiel freezes, ketchup bottle still squirting a growing puddle of red into the middle of his open burger. “It would be best not to discuss… here.” He sets the ketchup aside, blue glass eyes sweeping the restaurant as if he expects danger to emanate from the walls themselves. “There could be spies everywhere,” he finishes gravely.  


“Of course,” Dean nods and shoots Sam a look because the guy is obviously crazy. As if the tie hadn’t been evidence enough.  


Castiel looks down at his burger. He flutters over the mess a moment as if unsure what to do when faced with the half bottle of ketchup he’d emptied onto his plate. Finally he grabs the butter knife, still wrapped in his paper napkin, and tries to scrape the blob of ketchup back onto his plate.  


“How long have you been tracking this… mystery thing?” Dean asks and Castiel looks up, eyes still lost in the face of his ketchup mishap.  


“All my life,” he says as if that’s the kind of answer you spout off every day. “Most of it anyway. Not always exactly the same, but close. Similar cases.”  


Sam and Dean nod as he falls silent, returning to his burger clean up with dogged determination. “You would be surprised how many there are to be found. If you know where to look. Which I do. They’re ill suited to secrecy.”  


“You know what would help, Cas?” Dean goes on without waiting for a response. “If you actually said whatever it is you’re trying to say. Enough with the crazy talk. What are you talking about? What are we dealing with?”  


Castiel sets his burger down well to the side of the remaining ketchup on the plate. He looks around again, measuring each well lit corner of the restaurant and moving on to the people. Apparently they pass inspection because he leans forward. The Winchester’s lean in despite themselves, waiting for the big answer that requires so much caution.  


“An angel,” says Castiel.  


The words have barely met his ears when Dean starts laughing. Yep, definitely crazy. “There’s no such thing,” he chuckles, holding his stomach to hold in the flutter of anxiety there. Castiel is obviously crazy. Which means they’re also no closer to figuring out what the hell is wrong with this town. Perfect.  


“You don’t believe me,” Castiel says, sounding at the same time unsurprised and disappointed. He sighs. “I expected as much. In that case, please stay out of my way for the duration of your stay in town. I have work to do.”  


Dean wags a hand at him. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”  


“I’m not—”  


“It’s a joke, Cas. Look it up in a dictionary. So, how do you know that these ‘angels’ are in town? Been talking to God lately?”  


“No.” The words are gravel harsh again, a little bit of that edge from their earlier fight slipping back in and that sobers Dean enough to wipe his eyes and pretend to listen. “God does not speak to my kind,” he says dismissively. “And there is only one angel in this town. A fallen angel. They tend to travel alone. I suspect they dislike being reminded of their altered status.”  


“Uh, your kind?”  


But the question goes completely unanswered or even acknowledged. Another curious look passes between the Winchesters. Sam shrugs, mouth turning down in a thoughtful frown.  


“Yeah, I hate to break it to you, Cas, but angels don’t exist,” Dean says, leaning hard on the table, jaw set even though his mouth is feigning a smile. A dry chuckle escapes his lips. He doesn’t miss the sharpness in Castiel’s eyes. His head tilts to the side, the look of a curious bird examining an unknown object in the hopes that it will begin to make sense. Another too long stare from those blue eyes that can practically burn a hole right through Dean. Before it can singe him, Dean turns away, gaze running off to the far corners of the restaurant to avoid Castiel’s eyes. “We’ve been chasing monsters since we were kids and never once have we seen any evidence of angels. And neither has anyone else.” He doesn’t say the other words going through his mind. The words that start with “crazy” and “Looney Tunes.” They’re on the tip of his tongue but he can’t force them out into the air.  


“Maybe that’s the problem, Dean,” Castiel says and it’s the first time he’s said Dean’s name. There’s something strange about hearing it on someone else’s lips. Those lips. The foreign inflection, just different enough to seem completely baffling. “You have no faith.”  


Dean snorts at that. Beside him Sam lets out a tiny groan and he retreats as far as he can go in the narrow booth, putting space between him and Dean’s burgeoning tirade. Dean presses a finger to the table as if pinning his point in place where Castiel can see it clearly. “I have faith in things that I can see. I have faith in the evidence.”  


“That’s not faith. Faith requires trust, in the invisible, the intangible, things you can’t hold in your two hands. Faith does not need justification. It simply is. But what you do or not believe is immaterial. This fallen angel will continue with his plans if left unchecked. We need to stop him.”  


“Any brilliant ideas about how to do that?” Dean asks, feeling petulant again. He sniffles. The jump in his blood pressure seems like it made his nose even worse. He can barely pull in enough air for a proper breath but he won’t blow his nose. Not now. Not while they’re eating and Castiel is sitting there looking superior.  


Show no weakness, that’s what Dad always said… or maybe that was the jackass sensei in Karate Kid… but either way it’s good advice. Because Castiel is still an unknown commodity. Just because he says he’ll work with them doesn’t mean he will. And just because he talks about angels doesn’t mean he’s a saint. Dean has no intention of getting murdered in his bed for putting his trust where it doesn’t belong.  


“We’ll need to locate him first. Of course.”  


“Of course,” Dean repeats, nodding. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice the sarcasm.

*******

“I still think it was a bad idea to let him go so easy,” Dean says once they’re back in their motel room.  


“What do you want to do? Duct tape him to the wall so you can keep an eye on him twenty four hours a day?” Sam asks, throwing off his coat and shoes before he lies down on his still made bed. “You were the one who said we needed to work together.”  


“Better that than have him killing some innocent guy because he thinks he’s an ‘angel,’” Dean says, air quotes held up for Sam’s benefit even if he isn’t looking. “Dude, the guy was talking about angels. Angels. He’s a friggin’ nut job.”  


“So we do our own thing.”  


Dean shrugs because neither option is particularly appealing. Either they leave Castiel alone to spout his crazy shit until someone finally checks him into the psych ward or they work “together.” He still hasn’t quite decided which option is least awful.  


“We can’t just let him roam around free. You saw him.”  


“Yeah, I saw him. And I saw you being an ass too.”  


“Hey!” Dean glares at his reclining brother.  


“You don’t look all that menacing when your nose is dripping.”  


“Aw shit,” Dean says, putting up a hand to check. But his nose is clear. If he hadn’t figured it out already Sam’s sudden laughter would have tipped him off. “You’re a dick.”  


“Whatever. If you wanna blow town I’m fine with that. But right now I’m going to sleep. You kept me up all last night with your snoring.”  


“I don’t snore,” Dean declares indignantly. “Do I?”  


“Well you do now,” Sam says. “You should try to sleep too. You’ll never get any better if you don’t rest.”  


“I’ll sleep when this job is done.”  


Sam grumbles a response but he’s already half gone, words lost in his slack jawed drop into sleep. Dean can’t blame him. Sam’s been a light sleeper for years, ever since Jessica… and his freaky nightmares didn’t help any. He’d barely told Dean what they were about but it hardly mattered. It was obvious from the twitching and the moaning and the occasional bout of tears that they were anything but pleasant. They’d left him for a while, withering away like forgotten boogeymen under a growing child’s bed. It had been good for a while. A kind of peaceful antithesis to the rest of their lives.  


Until about a month ago.  


If Sam thought he was fooling anyone he was sorely mistaken. Maybe some people would have overlooked the signs. The sweat matted hair when Sam woke. The restlessness. Talking in his sleep. It didn’t take a genius to do that particular math.  


Dean settled on his bed, hands folded as if in prayer and watched his brother sleep. This was why he didn’t believe in a benevolent Sunday school God. Because what God would be okay with the kind of torment they’d had to go through? If there was a God and… angels, then what the hell had they been doing all this time? Why had they lost their mother? Why had Sam lost Jessica? Or dad? Or any of the dozens of people they had seen split open and lying in puddles of their own blood? If there was a God then what kept him so busy that he couldn’t lift a finger to help?  


And Castiel spoke of angels as if they were just around the corner. Walk down to the corner store, run into an angel. It was nuts is what it was. He was nuts. With his ridiculous tie that he was just asking to be strangled with. And that voice that Dean could practically feel in his soul. That voice he used to say things that made no sense, things he made Dean wish were true. Because maybe it would be nice to have an angel perched on his shoulder.  


Angels are watching over you. That’s what mom always said every night when she tucked him in. Used to say. Back when he was just a kid who did normal kid things. Back before his world shattered like a pretty glass hitting concrete.  


That was another issue he’d have to take up with God some day if he ever saw him. One of many. Oh so many. But right now, Dean has more important things to consider. Like how to keep Castiel from offing the first fake “angel” he sees. And how to keep those blue eyes from springing to mind at inopportune times.  


“Friggin’ nut bar,” Dean mutters, hopping up, restless again. A strange sensation moves through him, like a whisper made physical. He shudders. “Even if there were angels, which there aren’t, how are you supposed to kill an angel anyway?”

*******

“The answer is simple,” Castiel says, standing in the interminable drizzle as if he can’t feel a thing. They’d decided to meet in the park again. It’s abandoned, just as it was the day before. Funny how being the site of a murder will do that to a place. “We’ll use this.” At ‘this’, he pulls something from beneath his coat. The blade is narrow and shines like mercury in the sun.  


“What the hell is that?” Dean asks.  


“This? It’s an angel blade of course,” Castiel says as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to carry around town. He holds up the sword, because it seems more like a sword than a knife anyway. It’s too long, too elegant and Dean finds himself drawing closer without a thought.  


He puts a hand out. “Can I see it?”  


Castiel hesitates but finally lays it in Dean’s eagerly outstretched palm. “Be careful. It’s very sharp.”  


The metal is smooth as if it has been buffed by hundreds of hands, not a flaw, not a nick all the way to the end of the tapered blade. The grip is still faintly warm from Castiel’s skin. Dean tightens his grasp, chasing the heat in the metal. Despite its length it’s light as aluminum but more solid. Dean would never admit it, but he likes the feel of it in his hand. It’s simple and perfectly balanced. Razor edged when he checks.  


“Where did you get it?” Dean asks and he realizes a moment too late that his wonder has crept into his voice. It’s rare that any weapon impresses Dean the way that that sword does. He clears his throat.  


“It belonged to my father,” Castiel says. His words catch for just a moment but Dean hears it. It’s the pause of someone who has something else on their mind. Something beyond what they’ve said. Another layer that they don’t intend to share. Dean wants to know what it is. What mysteries is Castiel keeping to himself? But the man gives no indication of the turn of his thoughts. He stands ramrod straight, that same stick up the ass posture he’s had since Dean first saw him.  


“Your father, huh? It’s a strange knife,” Dean says, intentionally slighting it and this time it’s more for his own benefit than anything else because Dean is sorely tempted to hold onto the thing when Castiel reaches out to take it back. It’s like a whispering voice in his ear saying ‘yes, put me to good use.’ He has no doubt that he could fuck someone’s shit up with that thing.  


The smooth metal slides from his grasp and Castiel wraps it with his own fingers, fingers that graze Dean’s palm. Another shiver shoots down Dean’s spine. He sniffles. A muttered “it’s cold out here” covers his embarrassment at the weirdly awkward moment they’ve shared. Because the brush of Castiel’s callused hand makes Dean think of that hand doing other things and whoa that is not what he’d intended. At all. He has to fight to keep from shaking his head, trying to clear out the unbidden thought that does not belong. One of these things is not like the other, he hums under his breath. One of these things just doesn’t belong.  


Castiel glances at Dean again before slipping his sword back into its sheath. The whisper of metal on leather is like the sound of secrets and stories he’ll never know. He kinda wants to ask where Castiel’s father got such a strange blade. It’s too long for easy portability, the guard too narrow for parrying, and the shape too odd for utility. It’s the kind of weapon that’s made for a specific purpose. That’s something Dean can respect at least. The Colt still maintains a silent vigil in the trunk of the Impala. In case he needs it. In case its job is not quite done afterall. Dean thinks of it like a ward against a very special kind of danger.  


“So where is the angel?” Sam asks. He doesn’t even hesitate on the word ‘angel’ even though Dean can hardly hold in his chuckles. It still sounds ridiculous to him. Some poorly made joke.  


Castiel doesn’t answer, the immobile version of a shrug.  


“Well that’s awesome then. You’ve got the magic knife and you don’t even know where we’re going,” Dean says.  


Sam is quick to huff, berating his brother without a word.  


“What? It’s true,” Dean fires back.  


“No, he’s right,” Castiel says and it’s hard to say who’s more surprised: Dean, Sam, or Castiel. They blink and the moment is over. “I’ve tried scrying for him to no avail. He’s here but he’s hiding himself well.”  


“Scrying?” Dean asks on immediate alert.  


“Yes.”  


“Scrying. Like magic scrying?”  


“Yes. I don’t know of any other kind.”  


“So you’re a man-witch?” Dean snickers even as he scowls because the sudden image of Castiel in a pointy witch’s hat is too funny to ignore. “Nice knowing ya but I don’t play well with witches.”  


“I am not a witch,” Castiel says. His tone is the same neutral monotone and it would be impossible to say if he’s upset or not. He gives away nothing. Dean is saved from making good on his threat to jump ship by the heavy patter of rain on the ground around them. The drizzle has switched to a proper downpour and it’s already slipping its cold fingers along Dean’s skin. Sam is the first to throw up his arms to shield himself from the rain.  


“How about we talk about this somewhere else?” he says as he runs for the curb and the Impala parked halfway in a handicapped spot.

*******

The latest trip to the restaurant, same place as the day before, is a strange sort of déjà vu. Sam and Dean end up squashed together on a too narrow bench seat while Castiel sits alone across from them.  


“Why are we here?” Castiel asks, voicing a question that Dean has been asking himself since they arrived five minutes earlier.  


The diner is the same age faded color as it was the day before. The booths are just as lumpy and misshapen from years of asses compressing their cushions. And Dean’s burger is just as tasty as he remembers from the day before. It’s just about the only good thing about the current situation.  


“It’s better than catching Dean’s cold,” Sam says and Dean feels like smacking him upside the head.  


“Hey!”  


“Keep your germs over there.”  


“I’m gonna breathe on you all night long until you catch this damn cold too. Just wait. I’ll stuff your pillow full of Kleenex.”  


“Ew, gross, dude.”  


Finally Dean stops, eyes falling on Castiel, still sitting across from them in silence looking perplexed.  


“Anyway,” Castiel drawls. “As I was saying, I have been attempting to uncover the culprit’s location for some time. He must be nearby.”  


“Nearby. Wow, that’s specific,” Dean says. “Could you vague that up a little?”  


“Do you have a problem with my methods?”  


“Yeah. I do.”  


They stare at each other with that unblinking glare that’s becoming routine after only a day. Sam finally breaks it up by clearing his throat. “So if you can’t find him with your Ouija board or whatever you’re using, we’re gonna need something else. Some clues. Something we overlooked.”  


“I do not use a Ouija board,” Castiel says, affronted.  


“Yeah, whatever. Don’t interrupt,” Dean scolds.  


Sam stands, shoving Dean out of the booth before him, and hustling out of the diner without a word.  


“Is there a problem?” Castiel asks staring at Sam’s disappearing form until it’s out the door of the diner. He raises an eyebrow.  


“Just wait,” Dean says, nursing the spot on his ribs where Sam elbowed him in his hurry. He glances out the rain streaked window of the diner, keeping an eye on his brother. Sam’s rooting around in the back seat of the Impala. While Dean watches, Sam dumps the wrapper from a fast food burger out onto the ground at his feet and goes back to digging. Dean can practically hear his brother muttering to himself, pulling together threads of a hypothesis he didn’t even know he had. A smile tickles Dean’s lips.  


“You don’t like me very much,” Castiel says without warning, again voicing the thoughts that have been rattling around Dean’s head without asking first. He doubts that’ll ever stop being creepy.  


“Not especially.” There’s not much point in hiding it, Dean figures. After this job they’ll go their separate ways and hopefully never speak another word to each other again. He shrugs. “There’s something weird about you.”  


“I could say the same of you,” Castiel muses. The waitress pauses at their table to top off their coffee cups. Castiel says no more until she’s gone. “The mysterious Winchesters who refuse to stay dead. You have very strange luck.”  


“You know who we are.”  


“Not at first. But I do now.” Castiel’s tight smile is hard, if not impossible, to read. Dean stares at it, at the compression of those full lips that barely even registers as a smile. The longer Dean looks the harder it becomes to tell that Castiel is actually smiling. It’s more of an impression than an actual expression.  


“Your crystal ball tell you that?”  


“No,” Castiel says, coldly. “Your reputation precedes you. There aren’t many hunters with such a flare for the dramatic.” He glances back out the window. “An Impala is hard to miss. Especially one driven by such a smart ass.”  


“Hey!” Dean squawks but Sam is back before he can say any more.  


“I miss anything?” Sam asks, eyeballing Dean until he relinquishes his spot on the bench for Sam to sit. The question is more of a formality than anything because there’s no chance to answer before Sam slaps his handy case file on the table and starts pulling out papers. He shoves over Dean’s unfinished burger and fries to make room for his map. Dots of red mark everyplace that a victim was found, a dozen so far. In a rather flamboyant shade of purple highlighter Sam had marked the locations of all the victim’s “last reported sightings” before their deaths. Those dots pepper the map, numbering considerably higher, like gruesome confetti. Sam spreads one large hand over the map. He smoothes the creases, circling the heaviest concentration of confetti deaths. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.” His hand stops circling. “Angel or not, this guy probably isn’t gonna cart his victims all over town. Do angels drive cars?” he asks, eyes flicking to Castiel as if he’s some kind of expert on the subject.  


“It’s doubtful. Most would have no need.”  


“Even a fallen angel?”  


Castiel nods.  


Sam nods back as he scans his map.  


“When did you do all this?” Dean asks waving a hand at the spotted map. That was no ten minute project.  


“Last night.”  


There are a dozen questions Dean would like to ask, namely “why wasn’t Sam sleeping last night?” but he keeps them pressed firmly between his clenched teeth. That’s a conversation for later. Not one for company.  


“Anyway, check this out,” Sam says. He jabs a finger at the map, at the highest concentration of dots. “There are a lot of disappearances from this area over here. It’s the old part of town. I checked it out earlier and it’s mostly abandoned storefronts and apartments. It’s kinda like a mini ghost town. I’m betting our angel is around there somewhere.”  


“When did you check it out? Last night again?” Dean asks.  


“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”  


Castiel looks between the two of them with his placid eyes, like the surface of a lake with a deadly undertow, but he doesn’t comment. He adds a packet of sugar to his cooling coffee and stirs it with a clink. “Your theory is sound,” he says. “I should have thought of this myself.” Then he shifts to pull his wallet from his back pocket. A handful of bills hit the table as he slides from the booth. “I’ll head there right now. Thank you for your assistance.”  


Dean grabs his arm, fingers digging into the still damp material of Castiel’s trench coat. “Where do you think you’re going?”  


“I believe I just said.”  


“Not without us you’re not. We’re coming too.”  


“It’s much too dangerous for someone of your… current capabilities, even with your penchant for playing Lazarus.”  


“Dean’s right. We don’t even know what this thing is yet,” Sam says, ever the voice of reason. “You could be walking into an ambush.”  


“I’ve already told you. I know what I’m dealing with. And it isn’t the first time I’ve faced the fallen.” Castiel’s smile is grim and humorless. It’s a familiar look. Sam and Dean have both worn it more times than they’d care to count but it doesn’t make them feel any better to see it on Castiel’s face. It’s the kind of look that ends up getting people hurt sooner or later.  


Dean’s out of the booth before he has time to reconsider. “We’re coming with. No negotiations. If you try and ditch us we’ll just show up anyway.” He smiles cheekily, staring down from his meager height advantage. “I told you before. You’re not stealing this job from us.”  


“Very well.” Castiel sighs. “Let’s put your resurrection abilities to the test. I’d rather not say I told you so to a corpse.”  


The Winchesters scramble to pay their bill before Castiel can slink away and Dean casts a sad glance back at his unfinished burger. He hadn’t even had time to order his dessert. Maybe he can make up for that after they gank this bastard.  


Castiel hits the parking lot a step ahead of them. His boot barely crunches in the gravel before someone steps into line in front of him, a man in a trucker hat and a full denim outfit. Another guy, just as stylishly dressed steps up beside him. Two more fall into step behind Sam and Dean, making a neat box.  


“Can I help you?” Castiel asks but he’s already got one hand on the weapon at his hip.  


“Yeah,” says the denim nightmare on the left as his irises are swallowed up by the flat black of demon eyes. “You can hold this for us.”  


The gun in his hand seems to appear from nowhere. Dean couldn’t even say afterward where it came from. The first shot hits nothing, flying wide, going who knows where. Dean takes the guy behind him, throwing an elbow into his ribs. Sam pulls the bottle of holy water he keeps in his pocket. The water rains down in a circle and the demons scream but don’t stop fighting. They’re tenacious, Dean has to give them that, even though it makes this so much harder than it needs to be. Out of the corner of his eye Dean can see Castiel fighting. The same grace as the day before. The speed. He kinda wishes he could sit back and enjoy the show, the metallic chime of the blade as it connects, but he’s too busy keeping his head from being ripped off his shoulders. Figures that he would get the demon who fights like some kind of WWE wrestler. Dean flails, throwing a punch up into the guy’s face but it barely loosens the bruising arm around his neck. At his side, Sam’s busy working over his demon like it’s a punching bag, putting years’ worth of issues into every swing. The grip on Dean’s windpipe grows tighter. In another few seconds he’ll be passing out from lack of oxygen so he wraps a foot around the demon’s leg and pulls them both off balance and off of their feet. It’s a crappy move but it saves Dean’s throat from getting crushed. They hit the ground hard and the demon’s head bounces off the pavement with a painful sounding crack. Dean rolls free, gasping for air, head swimming from the impact, just as the gun toting demon goes down in a strange flash of orange light and the gun goes flying. It skitters across the uneven ground, bouncing straight into the waiting hands of one of the other demons. Dean watches everything in a daze. It’s hard enough to get his feet beneath him. Dodging the gun heading in his direction is out of the question. Castiel turns. Flash. Flash. Bang. Castiel hits him like a truck and Dean falls again, ears still ringing from the second gunshot, heart beating in time to the sound of retreating footsteps.  


The bell over the door of the restaurant jingles as curious customers stream out into the damp air, all talking and pointing and fluttering about uselessly. Sam grabs Castiel’s fallen blade and tucks it into his coat before anyone sees it. Castiel moans, the weight of him still heavy on Dean’s legs. It takes almost a minute for Dean to realize that the wetness he’s feeling isn’t just the rain slick pavement. It’s blood. The real stuff. Slippery and red and running from the bullet hole in Castiel’s side.  


“Oh my god, is that blood?” someone shrieks, the high voice of a teenage girl.  


“It looks like blood.”  


“What happened?”  


“Someone was shot.”  


The gossip spreads through the parking lot like wildfire. Before Dean has a chance to haul Castiel up and into the Impala to avoid the curious eyes surrounding them, an ambulance turns into the parking lot with lights flashing and siren blaring.  


“Aw shit,” he mutters and it’s answered by something similar from Sam.  


Someone’s called 911.

*******

“No, seriously,” Dean says trying his best to sound reasonable, “it looks worse than it is. He doesn’t need to go to the hospital.”  


One of the EMTs rolls her eyes and they go back to packing Castiel onto a gurney.  


“This is ridiculous.” But Dean hops into the back of the ambulance where Castiel is still struggling weakly, almost politely. “No, miss, I’m perfectly fine. Don’t worry about me,” he says through a wince. His dark hair is sweaty and plastered to his forehead. He’s even less convincing than Dean was.  


“Take care of my baby, Sammy,” Dean yells as they slam the doors on the misty afternoon air.  


The back of an ambulance is more claustrophobic than he remembers. The tiny box feels too small to breathe in. Castiel mutters something unintelligible into his oxygen mask, fogging the clear mouthpiece with his breath.  


“They got away,” Dean says because it sounded like a question. Then, because of the weird looks he’s getting from the EMT riding in the back with him, he pats Castiel’s hand and adds, “I’m here. You’ll be fine.”  


It’s a weirdly intimate thing to say and he regrets it the second the words are out of his mouth but he can’t take them back even if he wants to. And he can’t cover them with gruffness and shop talk while some ponytailed medic is sitting opposite listening to every word they say.  


“They’re taking you the hospital,” Dean explains, or accuses really. Because they wouldn’t be in this situation if Castiel hadn’t gotten himself shot in such a public place. Can take care of yourself, my ass, Dean mutters under his breath. When Castiel glares at him Dean knows he’s heard. But if the son of a bitch is glaring he must be just fine.  


He’s surprised at how pleased that makes him.

*******

They’re rushed through the ER and Dean is shuffled into waiting room chairs while doctors and nurses run back and forth doing god knows what. Dean’s on his third cup of hospital coffee and waiting for Sam to roll up when a nurse stops in front of him looking sheepish and twitchy. She tugs at the corner of her scrubs like a child seeking comfort.  


“Yeah?” Dean asks, too irritated to be polite. This is all Castiel’s fault. Stupid son of a bitch, getting himself shot. Getting dragged to the hospital. Dean hates hospitals most of all.  


“This is going to sound very strange,” the nurse says and Dean almost drops his cup of coffee.

*******

Castiel is still sitting in the examination room when Dean is led in. His shirt hangs open. The edges where they cut the cloth are jagged, useless buttons still attached to one side. His abdomen bears a brownish smear of dried blood and at the center of it sits a puckered pink scar that used to be a bullet hole. Castiel straightens under Dean’s scrutiny. Then he bares his teeth in a wince.  


Dean wags a finger at the site of the former wound. “So what’s this? Half an hour ago you were gushing like a jelly donut.” He scowls. His eyes search for some kind of explanation that doesn’t point in the direction of monster. So far he hasn’t found one.  


“I… heal very quickly,” Castiel says and for once he won’t meet Dean’s eyes.  


“You wanna, oh, I don’t know, explain?”  


Castiel sighs. He slides from the table and limps past Dean to make sure no one is listening in from the hallway. Then he retreats back to the examining table with a hiss like a deflating balloon. As he settles he seems to shrink. Only his face retains its usual hardness, the high cheek bones of a marble statue and the eyes to match. “I’m a nephilim,” he says without preamble, the look in his eyes daring Dean to challenge him.  


“Oh sure. A nephilim. Of course,” Dean snaps, mouth moving before his brain catches up. “Wait, a what?”  


“A nephilim, Dean.” At the puzzled look on Dean’s face, Castiel sighs again. He takes a deep breath as if preparing himself for an especially long and arduous discussion. “I assume you’ve never read the bible? Genesis 6:4. ‘The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of man and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men who were of old, the men of renown,’” he quotes. “Those were the originals. I’m not nearly that old of course. But we’re of the same blood.”  


Dean’s jaw drifts towards the floor as his brain tries to form a logical conclusion with this new information. He puts up a hand to stop Castiel from saying anything else. “Wait, wait, wait, wait. Hold up. You’re saying… You’re saying you’re part angel. Like fluffy wings and halos and Michael Landon. Angels.” He raises an eyebrow. “Bullshit.”  


Castiel folds his arms over his chest. His hands are still dusty with his own dried blood but he wears the scraps of his shirt like it’s a regal robe, head held high. For a second Dean can almost believe he’s part angel. He certainly looks the part. But then sense kicks in. “There’s no such thing as angels.”  


“There are. But if you insist on disbelieving me, there is little I can do to change your mind. We’ll call it free will.” He smirks at that before he goes on. “And before you ask, I have no wings or a halo. Nephilim aren’t as flashy as angels. But I’m even more certain that the prey we seek is an angel after tonight’s events.”  


“Why is that?”  


“He sent those demons to attack us. Or most likely to attack me. You and your brother have your own reputation. I have mine.” Castiel’s smile is sly and sinister and strangely attractive all at once.  


“Meaning?”  


“You’re a hunter of monsters. I’m a little more particular. I hunt fallen angels.”

*******

Sam’s waiting with the Impala in the parking lot when Dean and Castiel leave the hospital. Castiel’s wound has faded to an almost imperceptible scar and his blood spattered trench coat is pulled closed to cover the tatters of his shirt.  


Sam looks between the two of them with curiosity. “You got out of there quick. Did you have to dodge the cops or what?”  


“Funny you should ask that,” Dean says. “Cas has been holding out on us. Looks like he picked up the mutant healing factor from the store along with those nerdy clothes.”  


“What?” Sam’s forehead creases in confusion.  


“Your brother is less than pleased with my heritage,” Castiel says which only makes Sam more confused. “I’m a nephilim,” Castiel clarifies a second later. “There’s no sense hiding it any longer.”  


“So you were holding out on us,” Dean accuses.  


“Had you asked I might have told you sooner. I hadn’t decided yet. But that’s immaterial now. You know. The matter is settled.”  


“You act like that’s a normal thing to be. You don’t just go around claiming to be an angel’s kid.”  


“Wait, what?” Sam says trying to separate the bickering pair. “Really?”  


“Yes. Really.”  


“Like a real angel?” Sam says, eyes sparkling like an anime girl’s. “Which angel?”  


“And you just believe him,” Dean scoffs.  


“Dean, you know what we do for a living. How can you not believe in angels?”  


“Because no one’s ever seen one. I like proof.”  


“We’ve had this discussion already. Your brother is very stubborn,” Castiel comments before taking a step away. “If you’ll excuse me.”  


Both Sam and Dean are on him before can take a second step. “You just got shot,” Dean says, Sam echoing him a fraction of a second later.  


“I appreciate your concern but I’ll be fine. I’ve survived much worse than this.” He pulls his shirt aside and points at the now invisible wound. “As you can see.”  


Sam’s eyes reach new levels of wide eyed surprise. “It’s gone.”  


“Yeah. It’s a friggin’ miracle. You’re still not ditching us. If we’re fighting this thing we’re doing it together,” Dean says, taking the lead and steering Castiel towards the Impala. “Since you’re not bleeding anymore you can ride in the back seat.”  


Sam pauses. “Before we go anywhere, maybe you should change.”  


All of them stop, three sets of eyes turning to survey Castiel’s mangled wardrobe. Castiel nods. When Dean pulls open the back door of the Impala, Castiel climbs in without complaint. He slides across the seat and settles in the middle, one foot on each side of the foot well.  


The suddenly docile attitude is a surprise though maybe it shouldn’t be. There’s a hitch in Castiel’s movement that belies his unmarred abdomen. Apparently even nephilim need some recovery time.  


“Where to?” Dean asks once he’s taken his place at the wheel with Sam beside him. He leans over the bench seat to eyeball Castiel.  


When Castiel tells him, Dean frowns. “I have no idea where that is.”  


“I can direct you.”  


Dean shrugs and pops the Impala into gear. Works for him.  


It’s a strange sort of drive, like every awkward family road trip they never took all rolled into one. Castiel’s weary croaks from the back seat make it impossible to forget that their usual duo has become a trio. And Dean would never admit it but it almost feels nice for a moment. It’s nice to have someone else to talk to. To argue with. Someone whose responses Dean doesn’t already know by rote.  


It’s almost a shame when they pull up in front of a dilapidated Victorian and Castiel signals that their trip has ended. Was nice while it lasted, Dean supposes. Except that it wasn’t. Not with Castiel’s eyes on him like tiny lasers. As if they can see straight into Dean’s head. At least, that’s how it feels. Somewhere between a happy invasion and an unwelcome one. He can’t help wondering what kind of freaky powers nephilim come stocked with.  


“This is it?” Dean asks in surprise. The place actually looks… nice. Well kept. “How do you afford this place?”  


“You would be surprised what people will give you if you threaten them with bodily harm,” Castiel deadpans as the door pops open with the familiar creak. He climbs from the car and is up the walk before Dean has recovered enough to ask, “You’re joking, right?”  


Castiel chuckles and the sound is like dry leaves blowing across pavement. “Yes. I’m squatting. It’s not particularly comfortable but it serves its purpose.”  


“Do you really need this much space?” Sam asks. He falls into step behind them.  


“No. But I like my privacy and a motel is too costly for long term investigation. This neighborhood is largely abandoned. It makes it easier to spot unwelcome visitors.”  


“Smart.” Sam gives a nod and that familiar frown of approval that turns down the corners of his mouth.  


The front door opens with a creak, lock long since busted. Inside, dust motes float through the shafts of gold late day sun. The place is silent. Peaceful even. And it immediately sets Dean on edge. He’s been in places like this before. They always seem quaint and charming until a poltergeist throws you across the room and tries to strangle you. He doesn’t trust the place with its pretty damask wallpaper and dark wood any further than he can throw it. Assuming he could throw an entire house at all.  


Dean’s startled out of his reverie by a tap on his shoulder. “What’re you doing?” Sam asks.  


“Ya know, we should plan or something before we go throwing ourselves at this thing,” Dean says, surprising himself with the idea as much as he does Sam.  


“You… want to plan?” he asks.  


“Yeah. If this thing is really an ‘angel’ don’t we need some kind of special weapons? Or a bible or something?”  


“I already told you. I have a weapon to use against him.”  


“But what about us? We just supposed to point a finger at him and go BANG?” Dean asks. He turns right out of the hallway, making a quick circuit of the abandoned sitting room, its windows overlooking the weed filled yard.  


“There are very few weapons that are effective against angels. Only one of which we have.” Castiel pats his sword again, a trace of pride in his expression. “The others would be quite difficult to acquire unless you have a way to transport us to the Holy Land.”  


“So whoopee cushions and squirt guns it is then. Awesome.”  


“I’m not in the habit of carrying spare weapons. This is the first time I’ve had partners.”  


“Sounds lonely,” Sam says. The look on Castiel’s face alone is worth the price of admission. For about two seconds anyway. Then the sudden naked loneliness disappears. The shadows retreat from his eyes and his expression is blank again. Or mostly so. Dean can’t help thinking there’s a trace of it left, only buried so deep no one is likely to find it.  


“It’s a necessary evil,” Castiel says and turns away. He mounts the stairs to the second floor, moving with the kind of grace you only find in old movies and the kind of weariness you only find in the just plain old. “Would you like anything? I can make tea. And there are some crackers that aren’t too stale in the kitchen.”  


“A real spread there, Cas,” Dean comments but he helps himself anyway, settling in to wait in a chair that’s only moderately moth eaten.  


“He doesn’t look so good,” Sam comments when Castiel is well out of earshot.  


“Try telling him that.”  


“So he’s really a nephilim?”  


“Beats me. You’re the one who hits the church and does the bible reading. I don’t even know what that is.” Dean shrugs, finishing off a stack of half a dozen crackers in one go. They bend beneath the pressure of his teeth, almost painfully stale. “I can’t believe he eats this crap.”  


Sam looks around. “I wonder how long he’s been here.”  


“About three months,” Castiel says, reappearing so soundlessly that both Sam and Dean jump.  


“Man, don’t do that!” Dean snaps. Then he starts picking up the crackers he dropped in his lap. Crumbs speckle his jeans and crunch beneath his boots.  


“I’m merely answering the question your brother asked,” Castiel says. His rags have been replaced with a fresh button down and his tie has taken a temporary vacation. It’s almost impossible to tell that he changed clothes otherwise. It’s like looking at a cartoon character. Every outfit a close facsimile of the one before it.  


“Don’t you own any other clothes?”  


Castiel doesn’t answer. Instead he collects his coat from the bottom post of the stairs. “Shall we go?” With the coat back in place there’s a sort of shift in Castiel. All business.  


“You’re still playing wounded,” Dean comments. “You sure you’re up to this?”  


Castiel nods. And with that the matter is apparently settled because he’s already out the door, leaving it gaping after him, a fishlike mouth open to the deepening twilight.  


“What about you, Dean?” Sam asks and that was the last question he expected to come from Sam’s mouth.  


“What about me?”  


“You’re not exactly Mr. Health and Wellbeing yourself.”  


“It’s allergies. Or something,” Dean snaps. “I’m fine. Besides, if we’re gonna play the concerned card, we should be slapping you with it.”  


“Meaning?”  


“Don’t play dumb. You’ve barely slept in weeks. Patrolling while I’m asleep. Really? What are you, Buffy now? When was the last time you actually slept?”  


“I’m fine.”  


“Yeah I totally buy that. Of course. You’re fine. I’m fine. Everybody’s fine.”  


“Then I guess we should get going,” Sam says, an edge in his voice. He’s out the door before Dean can come up with a proper retort.

*******

“So how do we know we’re going in the right direction?” Dean asks after the tenth straight minute of silence in the car.  


Castiel simply says, “I’ll know.”  


“Great. That’s very reassuring.”  


But it turns out Castiel does know. Actually he pinpoints it with accuracy that’s a little more than freaky. Dean can tell the moment the change comes over Castiel. He stiffens in the back seat, head up like a dog scenting the air.  


“He’s here,” he says and in his church bell voice it sounds more like an ominous portent than the notice of a friendly visitor.  


“How close?”  


Castiel points out the window, finger jabbing at the hazy outline of a squat building the next block over. It’s barely discernible with half the street lights on the block out but Dean follows their friendly angelic pointer, turning the Impala towards their new destination. Worst case scenario, if Castiel is wrong, Dean can laugh about it later and that’s enough for him.  


“There’s something weird about this place,” Sam says. He’s been frowning ever since they reached the old part of town and it’s only intensified with the apparent nearness to their angelic prey. He presses a hand to his head, palm digging into his left temple as his eyes narrow to slits.  


“Angels, even fallen angels, can have a special kind of aura, a presence,” Castiel says, meeting Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Generally it only affects those who have a connection with them.”  


“A connection? What kind of connection?” Dean asks, visions of angel orgies springing to mind automatically.  


“Vessels, mostly. But there are others who are sensitive too. This whole town has been affected, slowly, by the angel’s presence in their midst. Especially with the addition of the rituals he’s been performing. It would be hard to find someone immune to that kind of influence. I’m sure you’ve noticed it.”  


“The Stepford diner?”  


Castiel nods.  


“Wait, what rituals? You didn’t say anything about rituals.”  


“What did you think the blood was for?” Castiel asks dryly. “You didn’t think he was eating it, did you?”  


“Well… kinda.”  


“Angels don’t consume blood. Even the fallen are nearly impervious to hunger and thirst. But blood is life. It has many uses. In this case, I would guess an amassing of power. There’s no other explanation for the volume of blood he’s taken.”  


“What kind of power?” Sam asks still holding onto his head like it might fall off.  


“We won’t know for sure until we find him,” Castiel says.  


“Which is why we should have a plan. Dean was right,” Sam says. “We don’t know what we’ll be walking into.”  


“More demons?” Dean suggests.  


“It’s possible but it’s unlikely that he’s collected an army around him. I would be surprised if he had more than a half dozen demon guards.”  


“And why’s that?”  


“It would be too visible. The more soldiers he surrounds himself with the more likely he is to be spotted. And the more he’ll have to control. He wouldn’t want to waste his energy.”  


“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Dean says and if there’s a hint of admiration in his voice he’d never admit to it later. Maybe he can blame it on the cold that he doesn’t have. Beside him Sam watches with open curiosity, a book with arms and legs.  


“I have.” Castiel shifts, one hand going to his side before he catches himself. “Park around the block. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”  


The former downtown area is a ghost town, a strange companion to Castiel’s own abandoned neighborhood. “I guess angels really do like their privacy,” Dean says, peering into the dust streaked windows of the buildings they pass. He’s probably the first one to look in them in months. Maybe years. The ground is strewn with leftover leaves from autumns past and the street is cracked and pockmarked from disuse. It’s like the town collectively forgot the place was there. The trio’s footsteps echo around the buildings. A single street light flickers and springs to life as they pass. Its dim yellow light paints misshapen shadows on the sidewalk at their feet. The whole place couldn’t look creepier if they had a thick swath of fog to wade through.  


“I feel like we’re walking into a horror movie,” Dean mutters.  


At his left Castiel bares his teeth in a mirthless smile. His sword is already in hand, a silver shimmer against all the dark grime of the area. “We may be.”  


“That’s comforting.”  


Castiel stops in front of a building with broken front windows and a warped theater marquis. “This is the place.”  


“Movie buff, huh? Well okay then.”  


Sam’s answer is decidedly more abstract. He hisses, hand pressed to his head as his knees buckle and he drops to the pavement. Dean barely catches him before he cracks his head on the sidewalk. Sam’s eyelids flutter like hummingbird wings.  


“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Dean wraps his arms around his brother, holding him up with an effort while he twitches. “Is this a seizure? What’s going on?”  


Castiel’s brows draw together as he looks at Sam but he says nothing.  


Sam groans, dead weight nearly dragging Dean down with him. Then he gives another shudder and breathes out in one long groan and he’s back. He straightens.  


“What the hell was that?!” Dean demands.  


“I saw something,” Sam says, stumbling over the words as if he’s only just learned them. “Inside. I saw inside.”  


"You saw inside the building that we haven’t even gone into yet. This is good. You’re hallucinating? I’m taking you back to the motel.”  


“I’m fine. It’s happened before. I’ll be fine in a second.”  


“Before. Really. And you were gonna tell me about this when?”  


“I knew how you’d react,” Sam says, sweeping a hand to indicate Dean. “Like that. If you found out.” He squints as if he’s looking into the naked sun even though it set an hour ago.  


“Your brother has visions.” Castiel’s tone is neutral but Dean can’t help hearing an accusation in it. Visions…  


“They’re not visions!” Dean snaps before turning back to Sam. “See. Now everyone is gonna hear about this. Couldn’t you have waited until later to have the freaky seizure thing?”  


“Sorry, Dean. I’ll try and save the mind numbing pain for a more opportune moment next time.”  


“What did you see?” Castiel asks.  


“Not much. Some demons. Real demons. I could see their faces,” Sam says, color draining from his face. “They didn’t look like people. And… I saw him. The angel.”  


“What did it look like?” Dean asks, curious despite himself. Because he’s still having a hard time buying the angel part, or the part where his brother has moved on from nightmares to waking hallucinations, but he’ll go with it if it means this job gets finished that much quicker. Sam needs to get someplace a little less dangerous before he has enough fit.  


“Like light. I couldn’t see a face. It just looked like a spotlight with wings. They were huge.” Sam’s eyes open in wonder. “I think he knows we’re coming.”  


“That makes things simpler,” Castiel says.  


“It does? How does that make things simpler? What? We’re supposed to just walk up and ring the doorbell now?”  


“We won’t have to. They’re already there,” Sam says. He points over Dean’s shoulder. When they turn, there are a half dozen demons standing there.  


“Winchesters,” one of them smiles. “And the freak. Must be our lucky night.”  


“We’re here to talk,” Castiel says, expressionless again now. He’d barely twitched at the word freak, so used to it that it had become just like any other word to him. “Where is Jetrel?”  


“He’s not taking calls right now,” says one of the demons.  


“He will. But if you’re not up to delivering the message I could deliver it myself. Are you loyal enough to die for him?” Castiel says, raising his sword. It twinkles as if the blade itself is pleased by the idea.  


“What makes you so sure he’ll like this message?” says one of the demons, eyes on the blade facing him. It’s the kind of weapon that makes you take notice and Dean can feel the strange hum of it even though it’s not in his hand.  


“I’m sure he won’t like the message at all. But that’s not my problem.” Castiel smiles grimly. He lunges. The edge of the blade barely grazes the nearest demon but blood blooms on its borrowed skin, gushing from the slit throat like a gruesome waterfall. Sam and Dean start swinging too even though their knives won’t do much permanent damage, each of them equipped with a bottle of holy water in their free hand. The demons hiss, bodies smoking, while Sam tries to get out the exorcism as quickly as he can. By the time he’s done, they’re out of holy water, he’s bleeding sluggishly from the side of his head, and Dean is panting and lightheaded. Two of the demons died along with their meatsuits, lying motionless on the ground in a puddle of blood. The rest of the bodies are only asleep, demons expelled in a swirling cloud of black smoke.  


“What the hell is that thing?” Dean asks in between gasps. He sucks in a breath through his mouth, bypassing his inflamed nasal passages altogether.  


“It’s an angel sword,” Castiel says. Then he stoops to wipe the bloody metal on the back of one of the dead demons. With it clean, he nods.  


“An angel sword.”  


“Yes.”  


“When this is all over we’re gonna have a little sit down and you’re gonna explain,” Dean says, eyes on the unmarred silver surface of Castiel’s blade.  


“If you insist. Let’s go.”  


“Hey, who put you in charge?” Dean squawks, hustling to catch up. Then he turns back to his brother. “Sammy, you okay?”  


Sam is still looking pale from his hallucinations or visions or whatever the fuck it is that he’s having but he nods. “Yeah. I’m great.” He grins and it looks unhinged, eyes filled with stars.  


“Dude, you look stoned.”  


“I’m fine, Dean. Let’s go.”  


“You’re not fine. You look like you’re gonna face plant if I let go of you.”  


“Your brother will be perfectly safe,” Castiel interrupts and Dean jumps. He’d almost forgotten he was there. Again. Strange how he can do that. “No angel would dare touch him.”  


“Those demon assholes didn’t have a problem with it.”  


“Those were demons. Not angels,” Castiel repeats, speaking slowly as if addressing a child. “We’re wasting time here. Let’s go.”  


Dean watches Castiel and Sam as they hurry on ahead of him, Castiel looking very small beside Sam, barely at his shoulder. It’s a strange sight. Usually Dean’s in the lead. Never behind. He can’t decide if he likes this newest development, someone else helping to steer the ship for a change, but maybe he could get used to it. Sometimes.  


He trots after them, slipping back into the lead, forming the top point of a triangle of attack. Things make more sense that way, he decides. He makes more sense. There have been too many surprises for one day. Too many things he was unprepared for. But he knows how to fight. He knows how to watch out for his brother. And that’s enough.  


The door to the movie theater is open, the building so old and worn that it probably wasn’t even worth locking up in the first place. The lobby is dark, layered with shadows, and permeated with the smell of stale air and dust permeates. And just like clockwork, there’s a crack of thunder and the rain starts up outside again. In no time the sidewalk is flooded, trailing a puddle onto the linoleum floor behind them.  


“Home sweet home,” Dean mutters.  


The ticket booth sits in the center of the room like an empty cocoon, overlain with years of cobwebs and clotted with dead bugs. Dean wishes he could blame that for the smell. The other smell. The one he notices after the initial blast of dry dust and decay and the oily scent of old popcorn oil. He knows this new smell a little too well. The scent of rot and the metallic tang of blood. He looks down, expecting to find a puddle on the floor but it’s clean. Or as clean as an unmaintained movie theater’s lobby can be. The checkerboard tile bears no suspicious spots and stains.  


“That way,” Castiel says, his voice thinned to a whisper that’s somehow even drier than his usual full throated rasp.  


The door he indicates is down the hallway, half lost in the shadows of the unlit theater once they’re away from the window filled lobby.  


“You sure?”  


Castiel nods. They move as a group, weapons out, stepping lightly as if suspecting traps hidden beneath every tile. Dean eases open the door to the theater with one shoulder, gun in hand. It’s more comforting than a knife even if it won’t do shit.  


The clack of the projector meets their ears, surprisingly loud even with the drumming of rain on the roof. The screen flickers with the movement of a black and white movie, the dialogue a hollow echo. Dean pauses to eye the screen. After a moment Bela Lugosi walks into view, looking suave and sophisticated in black and white as usual. Dean’s so focused on the screen that it takes him a moment to notice the sole occupant of the theater.  


“Come. Join me,” calls Jetrel without turning around. It couldn’t be anyone but him. Dean’s a little disappointed that his wings are apparently packed into storage. The fallen angel looks just like a man. A man with close cropped blond hair and his bare feet propped on the seat in front of him. “I’ve been expecting you.”  


“Of course you have,” Dean says, pushing through the doors first and starting down the sloped aisle.  


Jetrel is near the front, sprawled in a seat at the middle of the row, red and white striped box of popcorn in hand. “I have eyes and ears all over this town and you think I couldn’t locate a half breed and two brothers driving a classic car? What kind of angel do you take me for?”  


“You’re hardly an angel anymore,” Castiel says.  


“Yes. Yes. But I’m more of an angel than you’ll ever be.” He smiles, bright teeth shining in the darkness as he crunches on a handful of popcorn. “Your jealousy must be overwhelming.”  


“I’m not jealous of you.”  


“Is that what you tell yourself?” He takes another handful of popcorn, chewing thoughtfully before spitting an unpopped kernel on the floor at their feet. It rattles like buckshot as it bounces across the concrete.  


“What kind of angel are you?” Dean asks, eyes on the spit slicked seed, almost lost in the darkness. “You don’t look like an angel. No wings or a halo or anything. You look like an asshole.”  


Jetrel smiles. “Show some respect, boy. I could flay you where you stand, even now.”  


“Big words from Michael Landon.”  


“Dean,” warns Castiel. “You know why I’m here, Jetrel.”  


“Yes. I’m aware. And it’s so nice of you to come for a visit. I’ve been looking for someone interesting to kill. All these small town humans are so boring. Their blood is so weak it’s hardly even worth the effort to kill them. But you.” His eyes flick to Castiel, studying him up and down before returning to the screen. “You I could live off of for a century.”  


Castiel frowns.  


“And you were even kind enough to bring appetizers. The Winchesters,” he sighs. “There used to be such big talk about you. What happened?” He tsks, shaking his head though his eyes don’t leave the screen. “Such wasted potential.”  


“Not quite,” Castiel says.  


Jetrel pauses, turning to them with a look of curiosity. And then his smile widens to the lethal grin of a shark. “Oh ho! What’s this? This is a surprise. The Host have acquired a sense of humor since I’ve been gone, haven’t they?” And he tips his head back and laughs. The sound is strangely beautiful. Rich. Like the plucking of harp strings by expert fingers.  


“What’s so funny?” Dean asks, suspicions curling through his mind at the direction of Jetrel’s gaze. He’d been looking at Sam. That alone made him want to stab the angel in the face.  


“This must be my lucky day. You bring me a prophet.”  


“A what?” Sam and Dean ask together and Jetrel laughs harder, doubling over and dropping his popcorn box. He swats an imaginary tear from his eye. When he stands, he seems to reach the ceiling though his body is a relatively normal six feet tall. There’s something large and hulking about him, as if the rest of his body is hidden in the shadows around them.  


“The half breed keeps such strange friends. A prophet. There hasn’t been a new one in an eon.”  


“Who’s a prophet?” Dean asks, pulling Sam back a step when Jetrel advances, crushing popcorn beneath one bare foot, a strangely comical counterpoint to his unsettling expression.  


“Your brother of course,” Jetrel says, dismissive. Another step, the crunch of more popcorn but suddenly it doesn’t seem so funny. It sounds more like the crunching of bones beneath angelic feet. “A direct line to Heaven.” Jetrel’s eyes shine. “It’s been so long… Give him to me,” he cries, advancing so quickly that he seems to blur.  


Dean goes flying, thrown by who knows what because the angel’s hands never touch him. He lands over the seats, arm rest jabbing him in the spine and head knocking against a threadbare seat cushion. He stares at the screen until his vision clears, foggy black and grey resolving into a picture that makes sense again. More Bela Lugosi looking sinister. Dean ignores it, wobbling back to his feet. Sam is on the floor and for one horrible second, Dean thinks No. No no no. But then Sam groans and mumbles something and Dean starts breathing again. Jetrel and Castiel are wrestling, the thud of punches and kicks almost drowning out the movie still playing on the screen. Dean stumbles over. Castiel has dropped his sword. The silver metal shines from its hiding place under a seat, practically glowing against the dark worn concrete of the floor. Dean drops to his knees, rooting around in the grimy darkness trying to reach the sword between the seats. He bangs his already sore shoulder and slams his forehead into another seatback before he manages to close his fingers around the slick metal sword. It’s cool this time, almost as cold as ice and it seems to stick to his skin when he wraps his fingers around it. Sticky like cobwebs or cotton candy. There’s a crash and a cry of pain from Castiel and Dean doesn’t think. He moves. Castiel is wilted, propping himself up with the armrests of the nearby row of seats and the corner of his mouth is marked with blood. The only evidence that Jetrel has been fighting is the glow in his eyes and the torn buttons of his shirt. Otherwise he looks as fresh as if he’d just woken from a nap.  


He advances on Castiel with a smile. “I thought you would put up a better fight. I’m incredibly disappointed.”  


“I’m not done yet,” Castiel says. The gun in his hand is new, something Dean didn’t even know he had. The shot makes Dean’s ears ring. Jetrel staggers backwards. The underside of his chin is painted with a splatter of blood but the bullet wound is already healing.  


“Ouch,” Jetrel says with a sneer. “That almost hurt.”  


Then he tosses Castiel aside with a backhand.  


Dean raises Castiel’s blade, charging while Jetrel’s distracted. It catches him in the ribs adding another bloody stripe to the stain from the bullet. When Jetrel turns on him for a second Dean is afraid. The look on the fallen angel’s face is barely human even though it’s wrapped in human flesh. The lowered eyebrows, the curled lips. It’s the look of an animal about to tear out his throat and enjoy it.  


“Oh shit.” Dean can barely feel the words as they drop from his lips like cold stones. Jetrel raises a hand and his nails look sharp as talons.  


Another bang and two of Jetrel’s fingers have disappeared, replaced by bloodied stumps, as the angel shrieks. The sound is loud and shrill enough to shatter glass. Another shot and he jerks. A third and he finally lets Dean go, turning to where Castiel is kneeling, still bleeding, but gun in hand. He glances at Dean for a fraction of a second but that’s all he needs to get his point across. Use the sword.  


Dean does.  


Jetrel’s entire face makes an O of surprise, eyes wide, mouth rounded in shock. “This wouldn’t have happened when I was younger,” he moans like a dying starlet in an old movie. “I…”  


Then he sags, sliding off the blade like ice off a hot metal poker.  


The shockwave that passes through the room as the angel dies knocks Dean onto his back and topples Castiel sideways. Jetrel lets out a final screech that rattles the teeth in Dean’s skull. He checks his ears for blood and finds none. It’s a surprise.  


“What the hell,” Dean groans. His whole body aches. Now that the danger is gone he notices he can barely breathe again. Then he closes his eyes and lies still.

*******

Twenty minutes later, they’re all exactly where they were before, still groaning.  


Sam is the first to say anything new. “Ow.”  


“That’s what I’m saying,” says Dean, still spread eagle on the floor with Castiel’s sword clutched in one hand. He’s not sure he could let go of it if he tried. It may be permanently grafted to his hand. “Wait. Why do bullets work on an angel?”  


“I never said they didn’t work,” Castiel groans from the first row of theater seats, only his feet visible in the aisle. “They just don’t work well. Jetrel was fallen and he’s weakened considerably over the years. The blood… he was using it to enhance his powers. To keep himself alive.”  


“Bathing in it or something? Like Elizabeth Bathory?” Sam asks without lifting his head.  


“Ewww gross, man. I didn’t need that visual.”  


“No. Not quite like that,” Castiel says, voice emanating from between the seats like a ventriloquist throwing his voice.  


“Oh. Good,” Dean says. “Because that was nasty.”  


Then they fall into silence again with the peaceful drumming of the rain on the roof a far off lullaby.

*******

By the time they limp from the movie theater, leaning together like a kick line of injuries, the rain has stopped, the clouds pulling back to reveal the round white face of the moon. It’s the clearest night since they hit town. Stars twinkle against the sky and for once Dean feels a strange kind of peace. It’s hidden beneath the very possibly cracked ribs and muscle deep aches but it’s there. He looks up at the sky and smiles. No one is more surprised than Dean when he starts laughing.  


“What’s so funny?” Castiel asks. There’s suspicion in his voice and that only makes Dean laugh harder.  


He aches so bad it hurts to breathe. His brother is a prophet. And he may have made friends with a crazy asshole that calls himself a nephilim. “My life is strange,” Dean says.

*******

“You’re welcome to stay. And recuperate,” Castiel says as they pull up to the curb in front of his house.  


Somehow from him it ends up feeling like a proposition to Dean. Not just a friendly offer. It’s hard to say why. Maybe it’s the way Castiel meets his eyes in the rearview mirror again. Pinning Dean like he’s a specimen up for inspection. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, scratching at the short hairs there until he shivers. “Uh…”  


“Yeah, that’d be great,” Sam says, ending it with a weary sigh.  


“I thought you were asleep,” Dean says. And why didn’t you stay that way? Dean adds silently. He’s not entirely sure whether he’d intended to turn Castiel down and now he’ll never know.  


“Not anymore.”

*******

Dean feels like a parent putting his child to sleep as he walks Sam upstairs to one of the least empty bedrooms. It’s even equipped with a bare mattress on the floor and patchy curtains on the window. “All the comforts of home,” Dean quips as Sam settles onto the flat mattress with a creaking of rusty springs. “You gonna be okay all by yourself?”  


Sam shoots him a look but it’s ruined by the heavy purple bruise forming on his right temple. “I just hit my head, Dean. I’m not dead.” Then he winces. “Though I’m starting to wish I was.” He rubs at the tender spot and settles again, eyes closed.  


Dean closes the door behind him, slowly losing Sam to the shadows of the unlit room.  


Castiel is in a threadbare arm chair in the sitting room, one hand curled around a glass of whiskey, head tipped back and eyes closed, when Dean shuffles back downstairs. By rights he should be tired—every muscle in his body is screaming—but there are some things Dean needs to handle first. So he stands in the hallway, tracing the length of 

Castiel with his eyes, half afraid to begin.  


“I don’t bite,” Castiel says without opening his eyes.  


“I was trying to be considerate.”  


“No you weren’t.”  


Dean laughs. “Can’t get anything past you, huh?”  


“Come. Sit. Before you fall down.”  


Dean shakes his head and it sets off a new riot of aches in his body. Instead of sitting he wanders the edge of the room, eyeing the framed pictures on the walls. They’re in ornate frames of antique gold and copper, the heavy patina of age on them, but there’s something familiar about the faces peering out of them. “Did these come with the house?” Dean asks after a moment.  


“No. Those are mine.” The truth is in between the lines, in the spaces he leaves empty.  


“Your family.”  


“A long time ago.”  


“Where are they now?”  


The silence is so complete that Dean is surprised when Castiel finally answers. He’d started to wonder if he ever would. “They’re dead. Heaven does not take kindly to a mingling of the spirits.”  


“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Dean says. Castiel’s glare cuts him off. “Sorry.”  


Another moment dies in silence while Dean looks at the pictures. He can pick Castiel out in a few but they’re old, the boy in them fresh faced and innocent. Not like the man behind him. Hard set like stone. It’s something Dean can understand. An attitude he’s spent years cultivating for himself.  


A voice deep inside tells him not to say another word. Don’t get attached. It hisses in the back of his mind, spidery fingers wrapping around his heart. It’s easiest that way. But Dean steels himself and lets the words spring from his lips anyway. “Thank you.” It feels better than he expected and he smiles in relief.  


“For?”  


“Earlier. At the restaurant. You took that bullet for me.”  


“I…” Castiel pauses and then another thin laugh escapes him, “had begun to hope you didn’t notice that.”  


And there’s something so funny about that that they both end up laughing. Dean shrugs. “I noticed. But I couldn’t figure out why.”  


“I’m unsure of that myself,” Castiel says. He slips from his chair and joins Dean in staring at the pictures. “I have no idea why I did it. Bullets hurt even if I do heal quickly.”  


“Yeah, they fucking do.” Dean smiles, still chuckling, and turns to Castiel. The look in those blue eyes stops him dead in his tracks. For a fraction of a second Dean is cataloguing every weapon on his body, every lock pick, escape routes because the look there is feral. Starved.  


“Uh, Cas,” Dean stutters. “Snap out of it.”  


Castiel’s gaze follows the movement of Dean’s lips, the flick of his tongue moistening them. The inhaled breath. The stare is razor sharp. When it transfers itself to Dean’s eyes it’s as if all the air’s been sucked from the room. Hoovered into a black hole. Because Dean can barely draw a proper breath let alone form a sentence. Back off, says his head but just as quickly it corrects itself, No. Closer.  


“That was some fight tonight,” Dean finally says and his smile is shaky and plastic. Even focusing on the fresh purple bruises on his back isn’t enough to calm the nerves running through him, a shot of pure adrenaline coursing through his veins that has nothing to do with the fight earlier and everything to do with how close Castiel is standing  


“Yes. It was.” Castiel never looks away, barely blinks. Doesn’t comment on the inane banter.  


“I should probably…” Dean trails off, gesturing at the hall, at the multitude of empty rooms in the house. All the rooms that don’t contain Castiel and his fuck me stare because that’s exactly what Dean wants and everything that he needs to avoid. They’re leaving town tomorrow. He shouldn’t get used to this. But damn does he want to.  


“You could,” Castiel says and for a split second Dean thinks he might make it out of that room unscathed. Then Castiel smiles. “Or you could stay right here.”  


It doesn’t take any more encouragement than that and Castiel doesn’t give him the chance to back out gracefully. He grabs Dean by the shirt, tugging him forward with one fist. It’s rough. Castiel may be strong enough to throw him across the room but his lips are soft and his hand is gentle when it cups Dean’s cheek. The kiss is quick, barely the brush of skin and tongue, before it’s over. Castiel releases him and Dean rocks back on his heels.  


“I’ve been waiting to do that,” Castiel says.  


“You played that one pretty close to the chest then, Cas. I never would have guessed.” Dean chuckles and then he lunges because one kiss wasn’t enough. Two probably won’t be enough either. He may need to work on this all night to get it just right. Castiel’s fingers prod his chest, working on stiff button holes, heading south faster than Dean can keep track of. Castiel is like fire. His touch heats Dean’s skin and it burns in all the right ways. His lips trace the line of his collar bone, his tongue circles Dean’s nipples, his teeth find the ridge of his shoulder and sink in. Dean pulls them both backwards, unsure of their destination but heading there anyway. He backs straight into the wall with a bitten off groan as his bruises protest at once.  


“Fuck me,” Dean hisses and Castiel’s sharp smile is all he can see. White teeth and the warmth of his mouth.  


"That’s the idea.”  


Dean spins them, giving his back the relief it craves, turning Castiel into the wall instead. He presses in on him, fingers less agile with Castiel’s buttons. So many buttons. “Did you buy the shirt with extra buttons?” Dean complains until Castiel does it for him.  


“Stop talking.”  


“Yes, sir,” Dean smirks. He thumbs open the button on Castiel’s jeans, teasing the thin line of hair there. “No more talking. I promise.” Castiel growls at him but it turns to a hum of pleasure as Dean’s hand dips inside. “You sure you don’t want to talk? There’s so much great weather we could discuss.”  


Castiel’s hips buck as Dean’s fingers find their destination, grazing over him. Hardly enough. Not nearly enough. Then he hooks Dean’s leg with one heel. Dean’s eyes bulge as he falls, surprise flaring in them. But he knows how to fall, just like Castiel expected. He lands on the worn couch with a thud, already trying to get up when Castiel pounces on him. His leg finds its way between Dean’s, knee nudging his thighs wider, making room for himself.  


“Hey, you’ll wake Sam,” Dean says and it’s just ridiculous enough that he winces. He really is acting like the single parent. With a giant for a kid. He closes his eyes. “I’m just gonna stop talking now.”  


“That’s a good idea,” Castiel says. He kisses him again, the taste of whiskey still on his breath and any other thoughts fly from Dean’s head.

*******

They wake, still a tangle of limbs, with annoyingly bright morning sun shining in the window. Dean groans. Everything hurts, most of it pleasantly. Then he stretches. “Fuck me. Ow,” he croaks. His throat feels like he swallowed sandpaper and followed it up with a bottle of rusty nails.  


“I think we already did that,” Castiel says, the purr from last night dropping into his words again. When he sits up, the light paints his shoulder and the tips of his mussed hair with gold. Castiel’s chest is a riot of bruises and scratches and it’s hard to tell which of those are from the fight and which are from after. Dean winces just to be on the safe side. Then he realizes he looks almost the same.  


With morning light in the window, Dean starts to feel that familiar edge of panic creeping back in. That sour tang of suspicion. Because it’s one thing to screw around at night but the morning after… That’s something he’s never been great with.  


“Well, this was fun,” Dean says and he has the asinine urge to pat Castiel on the shoulder and give him a thumbs up. Maybe throw in a ‘Let’s do it again sometime.’ But he bites his tongue on that one. Probably too hopeful. Too high school girl. Right? Right.  


“Dean.”  


“Yeah?”  


“Shut up.”  


“I didn’t say anything.”  


“You were thinking it.”  


“Wait. How do you know—wait, you can read minds?” Dean squawks because the last few days may have become that much more awkward.  


Castiel just smiles and shakes his head but it’s not terribly comforting. Then he stands, stretching shamelessly, his dick staring Dean in the face. The same dick Dean had in his mouth the night before. His mouth drops open. What the fuck did I do? he wonders.  


Castiel catches his eye, the line of his staring, and he doesn’t say anything but his eyes do. The small lift of an eyebrow is almost more suggestive than any words he could have used. When Dean does nothing Castiel shrugs and pulls on his pants. Dean can’t help staring until they’re zipped and buttoned and the coast is clear. Only then does he remember that he’s just as naked as Castiel was a second ago. His shirt is tossed over a lamp. His jeans have migrated to the corner and his entire body is a couple different shades of pink and purple.  


“Shower?” Dean asks. “Just for me. Not together,” he adds before Castiel has a chance to jump on that one. Suddenly everything seems like an invitation, an invitation that Dean probably shouldn’t be giving away. The job is done. They’re leaving town. Right? Right.  


Castiel points down the hall. “Upstairs. Second door on the right. It’s cold but it works.”  


Dean runs, trailing clothes like a caravan. And Castiel is right. The shower is fucking cold.  


Dean emerges five minutes later, clean and mildly hypothermic. He shakes the excess water from his hair, drying himself with an old shirt. Another quick inspection in the mirror presents a Jackson Pollock like mess of scratches and bruises. Muted purple smudges from the fight. The tight burgundy marking of teeth and sucking. Blotches and lines cover his abdomen, his back. A few radiate down from his groin, a road map along his inner thighs. Dean wears them proudly for all of a minute, prodding some of the darker ones until there’s the tease of pain, a memory of Castiel over him, under him, inside of him last night. Then he pulls on his shirt and tugs on jeans that aren’t splattered with Castiel’s blood, hair still damp and sticking up. He smiles at himself in the mirror.  


He looks like someone who just had sex. He’s just not sure how he feels about it. Normally it’s easier to tell.  


Sam is awake when he gets back downstairs, talking to Castiel about something nerdy and researchy. Dean doesn’t even bother to eavesdrop. He strides into the kitchen, only the second time he’s ventured that far into the first floor of the house. The previous occupants left a table, a wobbly legged thing made out of particle board and faux wood veneer. It sways drunkenly with Dean’s footsteps, rattling the two mugs of coffee sitting on it. One for Castiel. One for Sam.  


“Hey, where’s mine?”  


Sam points at the counter. “It’s instant.”  


“Feeling better?”  


“Mostly.” Sam shrugs and his eyes drift from Dean and back to Castiel.  


“So… we should probably get going,” Dean says when he’s in sight of the bottom of his coffee cup. “What about you, Cas? Where are you headed?”  


“I’ll stay here a few more days. To be sure.”  


Dean nods, still staring into his coffee. “You sure about that? We could drop you somewhere. You don’t have a car, right?” He ignores Sam’s smirk.  


But Castiel shakes his head. “There are other things I need to attend to.”  


“Oh,” Dean says, shrugging as if that’s what he expected when it’s really the opposite. He didn’t know what he’d been hoping for. “Well if you ever need someone to kick your ass, give us a call.”  


“I will.”

*******

The walk down the front steps seems to go on forever. The few steps to the Impala are like walking through quicksand. But Dean doesn’t turn back until they’ve reached the curb. Sam had taken Castiel’s hand at the door, enveloping it in a curt handshake before he headed on. Dean hadn’t. Couldn’t quite find the attitude to do it up right. So he’d smiled stiffly and reminded Castiel to call them if he was ever in the area, wherever that may be.  


“We could have stayed a few extra days too,” Sam says once they’ve turned the corner and Castiel’s house is out of sight.  


“Nah. We got things to do.”  


“We haven’t even found a new hunt yet.”  


“Well we can check around. There’s always something going on somewhere.”  


They collect the rest of their stuff and head out of town by the same road they came in with Dean fiddling with the radio and Sam beside him smiling faintly.  


“What are you grinning about?” Dean asks.  


“I had a funny dream,” Sam says. He watches as Dean’s expression wanders between happy and curious before he says, “At least you slept.”  


Sam nods, still smiling. Because he’s seen the future and there’s three of them in it. Whether Dean knows it or not.

  


THE END


End file.
